Incorrect measurements

I went to pick up my bridesmaid dress last week for my best friend's wedding. This is the second dress the store has ordered me for this wedding. The first one was a teensy bit too small in some areas, so I was forced to choose a new style so the dress would be in the store in time for the wedding.

It takes six weeks to ship the dress. Apparently, even though they are a national chain, they have every single dress ordered shipped via camel from Sri Lanka. My dress made it in, safe and sound.

I insisted upon trying the dress on before I left the store. The sales assistant assured me it would fit since she had helped me choose the dress the second time. She humored me though. I pulled off the plastic covering and slipped the dress over my head. Up went the zipper....and stopped. Three inches separated the two edges of the dress in the bust area. Are you friggin' kidding me?

I stormed out of the dressing room. "It's too small."

"No, it is the right size."

"It's too small." I showed the assistant the expanse of exposed skin on my side. She tsked and called over the seamstress. The seamstress agreed it was too small. Out came the tape measures. Over came the manager and another sales assistant.

" I do not understand. You wore this size last time you came in. We were going to take in the waist." The assistant looked me up and down. She leaned in conspiratorially.

"Perhaps, you got the implants?"

I denied plastic surgery. She asked if I was sure. I replied I thought I would remember falling asleep in the operating room and waking up with an improved chest:hip ratio. The seamstress looked up at me.

"Your chest is a size 12. Your waist is size 4. This will never fit. We get bigger size and take in waist." The manager tutted. They couldn't get another new dress in store in time for the wedding. Perhaps I could try the sample size twelve? I thought of C. and agreed. The assistants scurried off to find the twelve and all the other dresses they had in that color in the store. I dutifully tried on the sample dress. It seemed a bit big, so I clinched my arms tightly to my sides.

Bridal stores are set up rather interestingly. There are a zillion mirrors surrounding small raised circular platforms. This allows everyone to see all angles of the dress they are contemplating. It also gives everyone an excellent view of the other people trying on dresses.

I came out of the dressing room and stood on the little platform while the women circled me.

"Raise your arms," the diminutive seamstress said.

I did as I was told.

The dress promptly fell to my hips.

The prospective groom sitting at the next platform over with his prospective wife wolf whistled.

We're going with a smaller size.

Toothpaste

One of my best friends has done me the honor of asking me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. It's a big deal, as weddings tend to be. True love and all that. With the honor comes the dress - the bridesmaid dress. Cue the horror film music.

All girls have stories of the bridesmaid dress. Ruffled. Beribboned. Themed. Ruffled again. Bows tacked in strategically unattractive places. So bad fourth rate drag queens wouldn't wear them around the house on the off chance they might trip on the hem, choke on a ruffle, die, and be found in it.

These dresses aren't terrible. Each bridemaid has a different style of dress all in the same color: serene. They are quite fitting actually. The slutty girl is wearing the slutty dress, the sweet one is wearing the sweet and innocent dress, and so on. My dress thankfully has no frills, no ruffles, no bows. I'm not into strategic draping or cleavage enhancing mermaid shapes or rhinestones. Interpret that how you will.

I went to pick up the dress today. The store's policy is if you take the dress out the door, you can't bring it back. I think it's to ward off hysterical women who gained ten pounds from stress eating because their friend is getting married and they are sure this means they will die alone with four cats. I tried the dress on per my orders from the bride. The sample size had fit beautifully - no tailoring required. The actual dress did not.

The waist fit wonderfully. The cleavage area was a little snug. Pretty snug. Very snug. If I were a tube of toothpaste, someone had just stepped on me so I squeezed out the top. I was a beer with too much head. I was a summer sausage popping out of the casing. It was not pretty. I stepped out of the dressing room with my hands crossed to cover the parts that should have been under fabric. The alterations lady looked me up and down like a prize hog.

"You are too big."

"Excuse me? I think the dress is too small. I am the perfect size, thank you very much."

"No, too big." She whipped out a tape measure. " See your waist is a two. Your bust is an eight. You are too big. I cannot help you." She stalked off.

I was annoyed. My inappropriately garbed self cornered a salesgirl. We discussed. Turns out my dress can't be ordered in a larger size in time for the wedding IN SEPTEMBER. If I had gone for the slutty version or the princess version, not a problem. But since I picked the simple, no frills, no ruffles, no tiara required version it had to be special ordered. Who knew it was so popular to be a candy color swathed lady-of-the-night?

I also learned there is a two inch difference allowance in sizes for mass produced clothing. Two inches. If I were sewing up someone's face, and I was off by two inches, they would be pissed. Roofer off by two inches - you complain about the water dripping onto your bed. Tiger Woods off by two inches - he's playing like he is now. I can think of a lot of examples where two inches makes one helluva difference.

There are times when you have to take one for the team...or for the bride. I'm ordering one of the other dresses that they can get faster. Ruffles. Bows. Rhinestones.

Sigh.